


Glass Houses

by Lywinis



Series: Losers Club (est. 1989) - An IT One-shot Collection [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Stanley Uris Lives, The Losers Club Deserve Happiness (IT), The Losers Club Love Each Other (IT), Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Richie has always looked out for Stan. Now is no different.
Relationships: Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Series: Losers Club (est. 1989) - An IT One-shot Collection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730569
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Glass Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts), [birkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birkin/gifts).



> bearfeathers said:  
> "Stop pretending like everything is fine!" Richie & Stan.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this fill: mentions of (in-canon) suicide attempts.

**October 1989**

“We should talk. About what happened.”

Stan ignored Richie, keeping his binoculars clenched to his eyes as he watched for the tell tale flutter of brown, or a brilliant streak of yellow. The Yellow-Billed Cuckoo was rare this time of year, but if he could spot one—

“Stan.” Richie was laying on his back in the leaves, just shy of crunching them. His voice was quiet, knowing that Stan would leave him there if he disrupted this search. “Stan, we gotta—”

“We don't have to do anything,” Stan said, feeling his jaw pinch against the wounds around his face. The teeth-marks on his face pulled with every expression he made, slowly healing. A reminder. Sometimes they reopened, the scabs breaking loose when he laughed, making him school his expression and look even more dour than he already did.

He would bear those marks for the rest of his life.

His parents had freaked out when they'd seen them, and he'd had to make up something—

That something being Bowers catching him and him getting away. Not exactly a lie, believable considering what he'd gone through but—

And then they'd found Bowers' old man. Well, it got Stan out of being grounded, at least. There should be a stab of guilt there, but Stan couldn't bring himself to feel it.

“Stan, man, you're gonna—”

“ ** _Beep-beep_** , Richie,” Stan snapped, walking away, leaving Richie flat on his back in the leaves. There was no use looking here, the tone of Stan's own voice, the volume of it—high and thin and _vicious_ , meant that any birds that had been there were long gone, brought to flight in a flurried explosion of fear and the beating of their own tremulous wings.

Richie didn't bring it up again.

Stan didn't talk about it.

* * *

**November 2016**

Two and a half months after, Stanley comes home. Richie makes the trip out to see him, even though Stan had adamantly told him not to, he knew that telling Richie no was tantamount to telling him to pack for two weeks instead of two days.

And, well, it was fair enough because Stan had been through a lot.

Richie had settled in, charming Patty and taking them out to dinner, talking through movies he and Stan had seen a million times, legs splayed out on the couch as they drank and laughed through the last three nights.

Stan had enjoyed the time. It was good to see Richie.

Now, out in the shed behind his house, he was going to put together the bird feeder he bought back in June. He hadn't had time, before, but now he had taken a hiatus from teaching, he had all the time in the world on his hands. His and Patty's savings were more than enough to cover his rest while he got himself back together after Derry. Patty was still working, and Stan had found ways to make himself not go stir crazy around the house. They could afford him taking a year off. 

At least his parents hadn't been alive to see this. Stan pushed the thought away, turning on the lights in his little workshop.

The shed was chilly, but the warmth of the space heater Stan had installed last winter made it tolerable after a few minutes. There was something soothing about working with his hands, making him feel like he was a human being again, instead of aggregate parts.

Head, hands, feet, a shaky chest, a rapid heartbeat. Lungs that wouldn't fill with air.

No, here he was just Stanley Uris, building a bird feeder. He started to slot together the wooden pieces, gluing them together and setting them aside to dry before he screwed the pieces in place for security.

A knock at the jamb startled him, and he turned to see Richie standing in the doorway, traveler mugs in his hands.

“Pats told me where you were,” Richie said. He offered one of the mugs to Stan. Coffee, fixed the way he liked it, and he sipped, feeling Patty's love flow through him with the first taste of the cream he liked. He was lucky.

“Thanks, Rich,” he said, setting the mug down.

Richie watched him work, the uncharacteristic silence making Stan's skin crawl. It crept up his back, the wrongness making him turn to look at Richie, who was watching his hands.

Or watching the bandages around his wrists, stark and clean and white. Still there because his cuts were healing, hiding the ruin he'd made of his flesh with his own two hands. There was no blaming Bowers for this one, not like the scar that nearly bisected Eddie's cheek—no, this was all Stanley.

“What?” he asked. His tone must've revealed his tired impatience with Richie, because the other reached out, putting a big hand on his shoulder.

“You ever think about talking about it?” Richie asked, an echo of himself from years ago. “Get it up and out?”

“No,” Stan said flatly, shrugging off Richie's hand. Richie leaned against the worktable, frowning into his coffee.

“You should.”

“No.” It was more emphatic. “It's over now.”

“You've gotta stop pretending like everything's fine!” Richie burst out. “Stan, it's not. It never was.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rich, you don't know—” He swept his arm across the workbench. The bird feeder crashed to the ground between them, and Richie flinched back.

“I do fucking know, Stan. I _know_ ,” Richie said. His voice was raw, guttural as he stared at Stan. Big hands balled into fists at his sides. “You think you were the only one fucked up by that thing? Eddie, man, he still has panic attacks, I've talked him down. Bill, he still stutters when he mentions It. He doesn't otherwise, it's almost gone. It's still with him. Still with us. Still with _**you**_. We need the help.”

 _You need the help._ The words were like bile in Stan's mouth and he grimaced. Richie stepped around the pieces of the bird feeder, grabbing Stan and hauling him into a bear hug.

Stan inhaled, shaky, and buried his head in Richie's shoulder. Richie rocked him, slowly, just a little shuffle back and forth but Stan could feel him breathing, solid and strong against him. He stuttered out a breath, breathed in.

_In, out. In, out. Keep going._

After a long moment, he lifted his head and pulled away. Richie let him, peering down at him with too-bright eyes.

“Do you...still...?” Stan asked.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “But I want...I scheduled something.”

Richie admitting he needed help, it loosened something in Stan's chest. He inhaled again. Exhaled.

_Keep going._

“I know money isn't tight for you guys but I know you're staying home for a while so if you need, I can help out,” Richie said, his words coming in a rush. Richie, the Losers, they looked after their own. They'd look after Stanley. That's what they did.

Stan reached out, squeezed his arm.

“Rich.” Stan couldn't find the words.

Richie seemed to know what he meant well enough.

He grinned at Stan. “Let's fix this, huh?”

It took a minute before Stan realized Richie meant the bird feeder on the ground between them. It took longer to realize that maybe Richie didn't.

Either way, Stan was grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> Go yell at bearfeathers, they did this to you.
> 
> I love Stan so much. So does Richie. So do all the Losers.


End file.
